Dogbert’s Whip

For the past few weeks, I have racked my brains off trying to develop a log template using a specialized mining software that I learned how to use, but have sadly forgotten, ten months ago. After a thorough review of the software’s manual, I realized that the procedure for creating the template is quite simple, assuming that the raw data one will use is nearly flawless and error-free. Otherwise, this template task will be an endless loop fest of revisions, corrections, sweat, tears, snot, and near insanity. Scanning through the MS Excel spreadsheets that contain our data, I soon realized that a great deal of editing is in order. Shucks, the very thing that I was dreading of is hovering under my nose. Somehow, hysterical wailing and fainting spells appear to be more attractive alternatives to the former.

I have to admit that I’ve stalled on this task for as long as I could remember. Although I’m fully aware of the impending urgency for this template (my officemate informed me that they absolutely need my input by the end of the week), I have somehow managed to fulfill all sorts of things, like buying salted peanuts in the cafeteria, for example, as a sorry excuse to procrastinate. No, I’m not the superstitious kind; I don’t believe that eating nitrogen-rich underground legumes will sharpen my mind to accomplish this template task. If this was true, Albert Einsten would have bowed his head in shame given the massive amounts of peanut butter and Growers® nuts that I’ve consumed in my lifetime. The thing is, when I’m under a great deal of stress, I tend to channel it through my jaw muscles. In short, I munch on anything to cope. Well, it’s no wonder why I gained so much weight since I started working a year and five months ago. But then again, I’m also fond of making sorry excuses.

Feeling helpless a few days ago, I trooped to the company cafeteria and bought a small bag of peanuts. Each bag costs a staggering twenty pesos, and if not were for my desperation, I wouldn’t have agreed to such bad, overpriced deal. And so a few moments after, I picked on the peanuts as I stared blankly at the computer monitor for what seemed like forever, hoping that God Almighty or even Mama Mary would help me out of my predicament. As the familiar gritty and salty sensations tickled my taste buds, I had the comforting feeling that the peanuts, at least, were doing me some good. Well, that was until I decided to observe one legume in better detail.

Holding a single peanut firmly between my right thumb and forefinger, I noticed that it glistened with vegetable oil, boasting of a perfect, golden brown color. Reeking of garlicky aroma, the legume was unable to hide the real reason why it has become irresistible to the palate: bits of white crystals were adhered on its slick surface. Majority of these crystals are unmistakably salt due to their round and stubby appearance. Now that explains the saltiness. However, why do pre-packed peanuts taste so good? Closer inspection reveals another type of crystal that has a more elongated shape and tapered appearance. This foreign substance has made many bland Chinese restaurants flourish, has forced a lot of us to be unwitting captives to Jack and Jill junk foods, and when used as a lacing agent to hotdogs or any other meat, has murdered countless loyal pooches who guard their masters’ homes with gusto. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m talking about monosodium glutamate (MSG).

When I was a kid, I would run petty errands for a stick of cigarette, a few eggs, a sachet of conditioner, and of course, a packet of MSG. In those days, the adults don’t actually ask you to purchase MSG. They simply have to say “Ajinomoto” and somehow, you’re pretty sure that it’s the “sugary” stuff that they want. Back then, I would ask why they keep adding MSG to food and I kept getting the same response: “to make the dish more delicious.” Although the health consequences of habitual MSG use have not been verified medically up until today, my mom has nevertheless abandoned MSG use in her cooking for a few years now. That’s why whenever I stay in our house during extended vacations, I end up complaining that our food “lacks character.”

My taste has definitely evolved to adapt to the Ajinomoto life that thrives in the big city. As a self-confessed fast food boy, I’m sure I get my fair share of MSG from my steady diet of hamburgers and Chicken Joy. In my personal food pyramid, Cheetos® and potato chips probably occupy the portion intended for “green, leafy vegetables.” Time and again, I have vowed to stay away from fast and junk food. But like a typical topsy turvy junkie who ends up swallowing all his rubbish and bull sh*t, I end up going back for more. Maybe it doesn’t help that I live in a place where a nearby Jollibee and Mc Donald’s outlets are open for 24 hours. Heck, in my workplace, there are four fast food outlets – Jollibee, Chowking, Deli France, and Greenwich – from across the street. Tony Tan Caktiong (CEO of Jollibee Foods Corporation) may be Ernst & Young’s 2004 World Entrepreneur of the Year but for me, he’s one bad, bad man. Again, I have this shameless fondness for making bad excuses.

In a previous blog entry, I have discussed how certain circumstances led me to pray again. Admittedly, prayer has had positive effects in me. Lately, I have noticed that I sleep better now, and there’s a sense of calm when I wake up. However, it was a different story last weekend. See, I joined two of my friends for a jogging session at the Academic Oval of UP Diliman. A full round of running in the oval is roughly 2.2 kms, and we decided to finish three rounds. Even after months of virtual inactivity, I managed to run the whole first round without stopping. However, somewhere between CASAA and the AS Steps, I felt the world around me getting hazy. Catching my breath and acknowledging defeat, I decided to stop and walk for the rest of the way.

On our way home, my friends were hungry already and decided to grab a quick bite. The nearest place with decent food is in Philcoa, and we settled for a “meal” consisting of Quarter Pounders, fries, and Diet Coke at Mc Donald’s. After that, I passed by another friend’s house where I was treated to a canister of MSG-laden Planter’s® Cheese Curls before going home. That same night, I dreamed about a girl who I haven’t seen in a long time. In that dream, I was a spectator in an Olympic swimming competition. She was the lone Filipino entry amid the stunning brunettes and statuesque blonde Caucasians who rule the sport. The moment the pistol was fired, she leapt into the air like a gazelle and glided through the water like a mermaid. In a few effortless strokes, she made the finish line, beating the world record by five full seconds!

I found myself at the end of her lane and offered my hand to pick her up from the water. With a smile (I was surprised by that, honestly), she accepted my kind gesture. The moment she made it on ground, she removed her swim cap and proceeded to sprinkle my face with droplets of water as she shook her lovely, fragrant hair. Eyeing her opponents with a half turn of her head, it was so damn obvious that she devoured the whole competition from the first nanosecond. And then, as if by magic, she clutched a gold medal the size of a small platter that dangled pendulously in front of my eyes. As if in a hypnotic trance, I stood there transfixed, marveling at her dominance and swimsuit-clad beauty. Then like a slap delivered in light speed, she eyed me contemptuously and snickered, “Eat your heart out, Fast Food Boy!”

I woke up that instant and shook my head from the absurdity of the whole thing. And yes, I still blame fast food, and while we’re at it, I guess I’ll fault the MSG as well.

Over sizzling plates of two different types of sisig – flaky bangus and spicy squid – and ensaladang talong at Ihaw1 Philcoa last night, my self-proclaimed techie officemate slash pesky neighbor, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT), inquired if I felt sorry for the grimy urchins who often press their noses on the glass wall of the restaurant. Clutching wilted garlands of sampaguita on their frail hands, a young boy and his toddler sister stare wide-eyed at the generous servings of animal body parts, sautéed in butter, garlic, onions, and green chilies. There was a slight drizzle that same night, and somewhere between the blinding lights of honking, traffic-scarred automobiles and the raucous of the crowd rushing to beat the impending September shower, I thought I saw the street kids shiver – whether by the chilly breeze or from outright hunger, I really have no way of saying why. But then again, it must have been both.

“Of course I feel sorry for them,” I responded quite belatedly.

“Then what are you going to do about it?” QPT retorted as she scooped a heap of the ensaladang talong into her steaming bowl of rice.    

With Buddha-like contemplation, I synthesized that simple question. Personally, I frown on people who offer monetary alms to beggars of all ages. In my mind, such actions merely promote the continual dependence of these people to unwitting acts of charity. I’ve heard countless stories of homeless kids who purchase rugby instead of the food that they promise to buy. Worse, there are adult beggars who feign disability while they beg, only to return to their shanties that same night for a round of gin bulag, or probably an overnight tong-its session under the light of an incandescent bulb. 

“I think I’ll pray for them,” I said smugly.

“NOT! As if you pray, noh!?” QPT jokingly snickered as she speared what looked like a squid tentacle on the hot plate.

Scooping a spoonful of bangus sisig in my bowl, I realized that QPT has a point. It’s been six long years since I actually stepped inside a Mormon chapel and heard mass. When I was still with my ex some time back, I also accompanied her, on a number of occasions, for Sunday mass in a chapel (I think it’s St. Jude) somewhere in Manila. One Tuesday evening some months ago, I also joined a friend as an "observer" to the Baclaran church for his weekly devotion of praying over lighted candles. But in both instances, I was a mere spectator who does not take spirituality seriously. Don’t get me wrong, though. I still truly and sincerely believe in God or a Supreme Being. It’s religion that I’m having trouble with. Ever since I realized that religions are filled with contradictions and dictatorial dogmas, I embarked on a self-imposed soul searching. I still believe that the right religion for me will pop up in due time. When my favorite cousin learned about this, she advised me to at least stay Christian no matter what happens. “I don’t think our clan is open-minded enough to accept, say a Hindu, in the family,” she says as if it’s a warning.

The last time I prayed was during the above mentioned “excursion” at the Baclaran church. There is this room in the church where one-inch tall white candles in aluminum cuplets are available in huge crate boxes. A devotee can take as many candles as he wants to accompany his prayers. Usually, it’s one candle per prayer request. The devotee could also dedicate a candle to a friend or loved one. The best part is that the candles are virtually free of charge. One merely has to drop a coin or two in the designated slot as a form of donation. If you’re feeling generous, a bill of any color will also do as fine. And if you don’t have any money to donate, don’t feel guilty; it’s perfectly fine. The house of the Lord is the ultimate house of charity.

My friend took about twenty of these candles and arranged these on the metal racks. He lit each of the wax stumps and in bowed reverence, whispered prayers amid the overpowering orange hue of the flames. Impressed by the prayerful atmosphere of the room, I decided to grab nine of the candles (2 parents + 5 siblings + 1 sister-in-law + 1 nephew) myself and lit them one by one. Mentally reciting prayers for each of my loved ones, I felt goosebumps forming from my nape all the way to my back. For someone who now rarely says graces before meals, it was such a surreal experience. Before I left the room, I decided to light one last candle – for myself. Frankly, it was one of best things that I’ve done for myself in recent memory.

After our twin sisig meal, QPT and I decided to pass by the local Mercury Drug outlet to purchase some cookies (handy midnight snack) and a bottle of Enervon-C tablets (I got soaked in the rain last Friday night and I could sense my often fragile immune system waging war against a cold virus). As we stepped out of air-conditioned eatery with the ripe “sisig smell” adhered to our skin, hair, and clothing, the young boy blocked our path and offered his fragrant wares.

“Kuya, sampung piso lang po… para makauwi na kami…” the boy half-pleaded with his sister tugging his soiled tank top from the back. At that instant, piercing spiritual emotions clash fiercely with my personal convictions. Instinctively, I searched my pockets for a couple of coins, but hesitantly, I decided against it. With a heavy heart, I said: “Boy, uwi ka na… gabi na… baka maabutan pa kayo ng ulan…”

That same night, I had an intimate conversation with God – my first one in a long time – before retiring to sleep. And yes, those kids were definitely in my prayers.